Antichambre
by Liett Valentine
Summary: Arthur/Eames. The too many wrong turns one can take.
1. Prologue

_**Antichambre: **_**prologue**

* * *

"I never wanted it to happen." Arthur said, more to himself than anything else, even though he knew Eames was listening.

There was a strong taste of alcohol on his tongue and his whole body was chilling. Arthur had been sitting at the balcony of Eames' hotel room for a few hours, and meanwhile had half-emptied one of his bottles of scotch. He couldn't even remember the last time he drank so much, or the last time he felt this much like hell.

Now he sat curled up like a ball, head against knees and wearing only a thin buttoned-up shirt and his black vest, which could be the main reason he was freezing.

"I know you didn't, pet." Eames replied in a low voice, disregarding the fact the speech wasn't really directed to him.

"Stop calling me pet." Arthur's own voice was harsh as he raised his gaze from the floor, staring with blurry eyes at the dark sky instead. "I'm not your pet. I'm not your pet, I'm not your dear, or your darling, or your love."

"You are all of them." And Arthur could feel the smile in Eames' face, and hated himself for being able to project that smile on his mind with such perfection.

He silenced, and after a few moments felt Eames' fingers touch his shoulder very slightly. It brought heat right away to his cold body, but Arthur moved it away nonetheless.

"Let's get inside. You're freezing." Eames said quietly. He seemed to realize just then that Arthur was more than a little tipsy by the alcohol and not in the mood for anything.

"I won't. It's my own fault, I've made it easy to you, Eames, and now for you it's like it'll always work this way, I can tell. Eames–" Arthur attempted to get up in a swift motion, but balance escaped him the second his feet fully touched the cold floor; his eyes went wide, but before his head could meet Eames' hideous rug, the forger had his arms around him, his chest against Arthur's back. "–it will not always work this way." He finished breathlessly, as if Eames was even paying attention anymore.

"Careful, darling." Was the only thing he muttered while helping the point man stand still. Arthur figured it wasn't entirely intentional, but Eames' full lips were only inches away from his ear as the forger made sure he could stay on his feet without tumbling again. Even through the bliss he felt Eames' breath was kind of heavy, which triggered two opposite reactions from him: number one, he turned around and grabbed Eames' collar; number two, he cursed himself, and wasn't entirely sure he'd done it out loud.

"I never meant for it to happen. It's your fault, too." Arthur started again, so full of frustration it brought heavy tears to his eyes, and through blurriness he watched the forger's eyes go wide. "My life was fine. It was damn fine. I didn't need you here, but since you came in everything is going downhill."

He stopped, partly because he was running out of oxygen but mostly to make room for Eames to say something.

But, for once, the man looked as if at loss for words. Instead of talking, he reached out and held Arthur's waist with both hands to steady him.

The point man sighed deeply, feeling so much more lost than before. He couldn't stand the pained silence, so he just kept throwing his distress at the forger's troubled face.

"I didn't need you in my life. What are you doing in my life? You're only here to bring mess, you're by my side and then you disappear, God knows where." Arthur interrupted himself again and quickly swallowed a sob Eames should never hear, but there was no way to disguise the trail of tears that fell to his cheeks.

It was when he realized that, despite the fact he was embarrassing the hell out of himself, screaming at Eames' face the things that were consuming him felt almost like relief.

"It's okay." Eames tried to sound soothing, but failed. "Arthur, it's okay."

"It's not." Arthur refuted right away, eager for something to disagree with. "It's a lie and you're the one who pretends to believe in it."

The forger said nothing; his grip at Arthur's waist tightened.

Another heavy sigh escaped Arthur's mouth and suddenly he became conscious of how tired he was and how much his angered speech had weakened him. For the sake of resting his head against anything solid, he leaned against Eames' forehead.

It was the first moment that could be called peaceful since Eames had found him at his balcony. Arthur's eyes closed on their own, his hands still grabbing Eames' collar, the light pressure the forger's hands made on his waist turning the world into bliss and erasing his mind with such effectiveness Arthur only realized what he was doing when a content sigh coming from Eames' lips hit his own from less than an inch away.

"Dear God." Arthur pushed back so harshly he almost stumbled once again, but none of them had let go from where they were holding on to; Eames' grip was still firm on his waist.

"You were always really good at ruining the finest moments," Eames said almost casually while pulling Arthur back to where he stood before, but their faces weren't touching anymore. "You're making it complicated, dear, when it doesn't have to be like that."

"You see, that's what I mean." Arthur cried out, shaking Eames back and forth as if to prove an invisible point. "I'm not making it complicated. You made it complicated when you walked in. Now I can't think, Eames, because of the bloody mess you've made. I can't think about anything else."

The red alarm went off on his head, warning Arthur he was spilling out much more than he should, but the point man didn't pay any attention to it. He couldn't bring himself to stop right now; instead he pulled Eames closer until their mouths were almost touching once again.

"You started it all, and can you fix it? You can't. And I can't even wish you would just walk away and disappear, because I hate it when you do, Eames."

He breathed in and out slowly and repeated pointlessly, "I hate it."

Eames kissed him.

It wasn't a real kiss, only the feel of his full lips against his own. It also wasn't made of passion, Arthur could tell. Eames was trying to calm him down and, mostly, shut him up.

It worked very well.

Arthur wished it would last until the sun rose, only so he could forget the whole world for a while, but Eames pulled back after a brief moment.

"Let's get you to bed," he said in nothing more than a whisper. "Right now."

"No. Stop it, you're going to listen to me, Eames." Arthur refused, trying to break free from those hands.

"Let's get you to bed." The forger repeated, his tone quieter and deeper, but the franticness was clear within his bright eyes. Arthur stared at them, wishing he could join that mess. "Right now."

With that said he began to walk in careful steps towards the glass door, never looking away from Arthur. When they had both reached the edge of the bed Eames helped Arthur sit down and gave him the weakest smile ever.

Arthur himself felt dizzy; before he could tell Eames had moved, the man was holding a plain white undershirt in front of his eyes.

"It probably hurts for you to blink, but I know you hate to sleep on your pretty clothes, right, Arthur." He was talking in a low, almost embarrassed tone, as if someone else was trying to hear them talk, and held the pained smile while Arthur showed he was still able to unbutton his vest and shirt; then turned on his heels and walked into the bathroom.

Arthur's head was spinning. He felt the urge to cry. Damned Eames couldn't ever let Arthur hate him, with true passion, give him a reason to never want to see him again. Eames could have let him cry his feelings out until his throat hurt and his tears dried, just because he would have never done it if he hadn't swallowed half a bottle of scotch. Eames could have let him drown in regret the next morning; actually, Arthur could swear that was the ideia Eames had of good fun.

He didn't. Couldn't give Arthur an excuse to loathe him. He made Arthur shut up and made him go to sleep.

By the time Eames walked in again, Arthur was curled up on the bed and trying to dry his wet face without being noticed.

He didn't know where the forger was heading to now, since he was the one stealing his bed, and found himself suffocating from the want to reach out his hand and ask him to stay.

"I know you think you're unpredictable, but to me you're not," Arthur managed to say, without meeting Eames' eyes, because that could put in risk his ability with words. "By the time morning comes, you will have vanished."

After a few moments of his heart trying to kill him, Arthur felt the bed shift beside him and a well-known heat creep to his body.

"You're only giving me excuses to contradict you, love."

Once again, and to Arthur's great pain, Eames was spectacularly right.


	2. Vue

**Please note that:** 1. the first scene takes place a few years before the prologue;

2. it's called _vue_ which is french for 'sight'. Enjoy!

* * *

**Antichambre**

**Part one_:_**_** Vue**_

_**

* * *

**_

Arthur woke up early in the morning to the loud sound of breathing that wasn't his own. Sunshine was barely entering the room through the curtains, but it was pretty much possible to see a body that also didn't belong to him laying beside him on the bed, clearly in deep sleep.  
The intruder was lying on his stomach, face half-covered by his arms. Arthur watched him for a few moments, feeling still asleep and listening to the distant sound of light rain.

Thinking back about early strategies for life, the only and obvious conclusion was that _this_ was most definitely not what Arthur had planned for himself.

Life was already troubled enough without any help – and if there is something every human being knows it's the formula for making both life and mind fucked up in one single step, which would be, of course, falling in love.

It took Arthur some good minutes to realize it was not quite right to have a man laying face down on _his_ bed, inside of _his_ hotel room.

When it hit him, he got up from the mattress so quickly his back hit the headboard noisily, but the asleep form didn't even flinch.

"Eames!" Arthur whispered as loud as possible, his heart thundering inside of his chest. "_Eames_!"

The man mumbled incoherently and shifted his face to the left a bit.

Arthur was used to be constantly proud of himself for always choosing his job over anything. After all, he was the point man, and nothing less could be expected of him: all of his work should be precise; therefore there was nothing wrong with being precise himself.

The thing is, he should have known by then, whenever you assume you're too good for something as evil and beautiful as love, you'll end up as the fool.

"Eames, wake up!" Arthur punched the man on the shoulder. This time, he actually frowned.

"Yes, Arthur. Good morning."

"What the heck is going on here?" Arthur asked frantically, because although they've been drinking the night before, but there was no way in hell he had drank enough to forget how Eames had ended up sleeping on his bed.

"I am sleeping, dear, and you should to the same, it's terribly early." The forger said, managing to arch an eyebrow without opening his eyes. Arthur snorted, worst expectations rising to the surface. _It is such a pain in the ass to get him to talk when he's just woke up_, he thought.

"I can see you're sleeping, Eames, my question is why the hell are you doing it on my bed."

That got Eames to fully open his eyes and, to Arthur's horror, crack a mischievous smile.

"So you remember nothing."

Arthur let his body fall against the headboard and covered his face with his hands.

"I do remember. I just don't see why we are together on this bed, so please enlighten me." He said, not even ten percent sure he wanted to know.

"I'm only messing with you, darling. Nothing happened."

Sweet relief washed his whole body as he slipped to the mattress. "Thanks God."

"You were a little bit drunk, so I offered to walk you to your room and you accepted – cheerfully, I must add," Eames explained while laying on his elbows and rubbing his face lazily. "You went to bed and I went to the kitchen to grab us some late-night snack. Then, when I came back, you invited me to sleep here."

Arthur's hands fell to his lap. "I did not."

"Indeed you didn't, I invited myself over." Eames smiled, looking pleased with himself.

"Why would you do that?" Arthur asked with wide eyes, shocked by how easily the forger could crawl into his bed.

Eames turned to fully face him. "Well, Arthur, you have a king-sized bed and my room is miles away from here."

"It's on the freaking other side of the corridor," Arthur said between gritted teeth. "Now please invite yourself out."

He got a fake hurt expression in response to that and Eames got up from the bed in a cat-like motion. "So prone to overreact, Arthur. I didn't even touch you, and I could bet you're disappointed by that." He winked teasingly and offered Arthur a smile while running his fingers through his messed hair. "I'll just take a quick shower then I'm leaving, I have to look decent after all."

Arthur thought on that morning that he hated Eames more than anything, but, after all, the accident was followed by so many more, all of them somehow related to the damn English man, Arthur discovered himself able to remember it almost fondly, and maybe wish his dilemmas could be as simple as waking up to a sneaky forger who had decided to share a bed.

He took his time choosing clothes, for as much as Eames' bath wasn't nearly as fast as he had promised, but eventually Arthur heard the shower turning off.  
Despite being annoyed and still kind of freaked out, he waited for Eames to get dressed (which made the smile on the forger's face even wider, which, on the other hand, made Arthur roll his eyes) and they left the apartment together.

"Look, Arthur, there's rain but it's a sunny day. Do you know how unusual those days are?" Eames remarked, pointlessly but cheerful as ever, as they walked out of the building.

As unusual as the tiny smile tugging at Arthur's lips, probably.

They had known each other for no more than a year.

•

There were lots of moments in Arthur's life where the bastard forger who Cobb dared calling a co-worker was included. These moments were marked like fire on his mind and, unfortunately, there wasn't much Arthur could do about them.

He'd replayed the entire story on his own mind a thousand times, maybe only to try to figure out where the watershed was, where had Eames stopped being the annoying affectionate English boy and became utter trouble, and where Arthur's sanity started being fucked, as well as at what point he had decided to stop running in circles and deal with everything.

Telling it from his memories, the tale would go something like that.

•

Whenever you assume you're too good for love, you will definitely end up as the fool, because not only Arthur fell in love, he fell in love hard. As if that wasn't just enough, he fell for the most wrong person he could think of.

The previously brilliant point man scolded himself repeatedly for hiding for so long from the feeling, since now destiny was clearly trying to teach him a lesson by making love take the form of the one person Arthur disliked as soon as he laid his eyes on them – and they laid his _hands_ on him.

It didn't make any sense at all in his mind, and even though people say that's how love is supposed to feel, he couldn't help but hate. Hate himself, hate his karma and, evidently, hate Eames.

And he hated Eames thoroughly.

(It did take Arthur more than a few minutes to realize he had fallen in love with the forger just as hard as he hated him.)

As for the hate part, for him it was easily understandable: Eames was everything Arthur was not, from his bad taste for clothing to his constant flirtatious manners. However, that was okay: he had been forced to work and behave around more than a few jerks before.

To him, Eames was a whole new kind of jerk.

As much as the other way round, every aspect of Arthur seemed to bother him, except Eames was unable to keep his thoughts only to himself. After nothing but a couple of days of knowing about each other's existence, the forger had analyzed and reported out loud all the attributes Arthur apparently needed to change as fast as possible. He couldn't be fully blamed: Arthur felt the exact same way about him and could very well produce a giant list about things Eames was doing wrong according to the point of view of common sense, but he managed to keep it inside of his head, while Eames had the urgent need to _vocalize_.

As extensive as his patience was, Arthur began to have a hard time focusing whenever the English man was around. He'd tried to calm down and regain concentration more times than he could count already, and that was a bad sign if there was one – for all his life, Arthur had known his own concentration as nothing less than perfect.

He remembers telling himself at some point, _after all, life is but a succession of challenges_, and that was precisely what Eames meant: a challenge, a big, annoying one, but would eventually go away. He remembers then smiling to himself, and that was when Arthur decided he stood on a higher level where Eames couldn't reach him.

Anyway, Eames did not share this opinion.

•

The two of them were sitting across from each other on a large table filled with pure work. Arthur had two of his laptops on and was scribbling like mad on three different lists, while Eames looked through his files and wrote rather peacefully, even though his eyebrows were furrowed and looked kind of tense: Arthur's personal and absent note, while replaying the scene on his mind. The evening was golden to him: it was wonderful to work when Eames was as busy as he was, because it meant his mouth was shut.

"Please hand me the red marker, pet."

Arthur's heart performed a particularly painful beat.

"Excuse me?" he asked raising his eyes from the papers and losing focus swiftly.

"The red marker. It's right next to your hand." Eames said a bit slower this time.

"I got your request, I meant–" the clueless look on Eames' face stopped Arthur from going any further; the man probably haven't even noticed what he'd said. _He's British after all,_ Arthur realized, _it's like him to be full of these terms._ "Never mind."

That was the first of many glorious times Eames proved him wrong.

He grabbed the marker and handed it over, averting his eyes back to the job, but for some reason - which would most likely be Eames, yet again - the lists now looked enormous and tiring.

Eames reached out and Arthur felt their fingertips brushing in a slight touch even though he was already trying to draw his attention back to the job. But those fingers didn't move; instead they lingered there, almost entwining with Arthur's, touching so very gently and still kind of teasingly, while Eames never really took hold of the marker.

He lifted his eyes abruptly and met the strong look of the forger, along with a small smirk. Eames took the marker at last and returned to writing with a full smile on his lips.

_Bastard_, Arthur shouted mentally. He did have a clue on everything.

Fingertips burning in a strange way and feeling silly in which was not even close to being the last time after Eames showed up in his life, he told himself he would not let the forger play any cards on him.

"I'm well aware professionalism isn't one of your most remarkable features, but you should consider letting those who value their jobs do it in fucking peace." He hissed and earned himself a confused expression from the forger, who looked so innocent for a moment Arthur almost apologized to him, but regretted it instantly. "I'm leaving, I'll see you tomorrow, I guess."

With that, Arthur stood up and walked out of the room – he felt angry at Eames, but wasn't entirely sure of the reason while slamming the door behind him.

That was it: the first wrong turn.

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_I'm not a native english speaker and have no beta, so please feel free to point out any mistakes. Comments & criticism are love and keep me going!_


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